Oak and Iron
by Vikeeta
Summary: Under the Sarmatian Knights' watch, a meeting is hosted between the Pope's envoy and King Mark of Cornwall. His wife is the young Isolde, the Irish princess. The confrontation that results from Isolde's arrival will mean change for everyone.
1. News

CHAPTER 1

The lush hills that surrounded Hadrian's Wall seemed to welcome them- albeit grimly-. Galahad closed his eyes: only two more years and they would be free from Rome's enslaving grasp. Oh, he had no doubt that the Romans would try to keep them fighting at the far off outpost that was Britain, but with the papers of safe-conduct throughout the Empire, they would be gone before the Pope could send a legion to keep them there.

He turned around and gazed at his brothers in arms. Gawain was smiling in the sunlight, letting the rays caress his rugged skin and messed golden hair. Bors was deep in thought, probably wondering where his children and lover were at this very moment. Dagonet also looked vacant, but as to his thoughts, Galahad had no clue. Lancelot and Arthur were quietly talking, but the smiles on their faces proved that the topic of conversation was not very serious. Percival had his eyes set on the landscape, his feminine lips turned up; he was probably poetically admiring the sky, grass and forests around them all. Lamorak, the second youngest of them all and by far the most childish, was galloping freely atop of _Dame_. And of Tristan he knew nothing.

The scout was a complete mystery to all the other knights: he seldom talked and when he did, his comments were so cynic, so void of sentiment that one hardly wanted to try to have a conversation with him. Not that Tristan would actually care about it. He was perfectly fine on his own, feeding and nursing his hawk, whose name they still did not know after so many years.

Galahad vividly remembered the day they all came together to start their training as knights. At that point in time, they were so many more than now. Each death had blown them all away. They could never forget their companions, their friends, their brothers. Arthur deemed them as failures on his side. Galahad and the rest deemed them proof of what they might never achieve. Death was not a valid option for any of them. Most of them wished to see their beloved Sarmatia again, even if they knew how difficult it was to find their nomadic families in the endless field that covered most of the territory.

Suddenly, the greyish horse that Tristan always rode cantered from the woods in their direction and snapped Galahad from his thoughts. He immediately brought his hand to the hilt of the sword; ready to unsheathe it and cut open whoever it was attacking them. However, the lack of hurry and the relaxed pose of the man sitting on the saddle implied no danger. Arthur nodded his head and Tristan made his horse join the rest, slowing it to the same pace as the others'.

"No Woads around?" Gawain asked.

"No" was the simple answer.

The intonation, or lack thereof, always made Galahad nervous. He couldn't understand what it was in this man that made him edgy, but being near Tristan was always disturbing for the youngest of the knights. They'd all gone through the same suffering, the same loss, and yet, they all remained as human as possible. Not this scout.

The doors of the Wall came into view. Though it was not home, the knights had nothing else to call so. It was both a hated and a loved place. Vanora and the others had helped made it welcoming. It was always good to hang around the eleven children Bors had with the tavern wench. Children were innocent, sweet. They reminded him of his family, of his siblings, of his friends. Of the childhood he would never recover. However, it was also the symbol of Rome's control over them. Oh, how he wished to burn it down, see the stones eaten by flames…

As they rode into the fort, Jols came out of the main house with a letter in his hand, waving it up in the air for Arthur to see. Gawain cursed out loud, and Galahad hissed. He understood that missions were to be expected until they were finally discharged, but they usually had to wait for about a month for new orders to arrive.

"In a few days' time, a Celt leader will arrive" Jols explained "The letter explains the details".

Arthur nodded towards Jols, his eyes serious, and took the piece of parchment from his servant's fingers, not even bothering to dismount before opening it and reading its contents. Eyebrows furrowed, he made no mention of what the letter read. Instead, he signalled his knights to follow him into the Round Table Hall. Bors was the last to enter the building, only taking his time to salute his lover and eleven children before he obeyed his commander. Galahad found it funny that he was the only one who had developed a family over the years. The rest of them had enjoyed the tavern wenches, sure, but they'd never felt compelled to father sons and daughters with one single woman.

The Round Table Hall always created contradicting sentiments within the knights. On the one side, its familiar seats, the beautiful carvings in the wood meant they were safe. On the other hand, the growing numbers of empty chairs left Galahad and the others with a sadness that would never quite go away. He noticed Tristan looking to his right. That was where Gaheris, his cousin, had once sat. He'd died over four years ago, but Tristan always paid him that little gesture of respect. Most of them had lost their closest friends. Galahad felt lucky Gawain was still around. They smiled at each other. To the young knight, Gawain was more of an older brother than a mere companion.

Arthur started naming the ones who'd left to never return. He always did so, and they always welcomed it. Despite him being half-Roman and their Commander in chief, Arthur had become one of them through his modest and honourable personality. The Sarmatians couldn't imagine their fifteen years of military slavery in any other way.

Their Commander lifted the note again and re-read it.

"We're to host the meeting between a Christian envoy from Rome and King Mark of Cornwall" he announced, his eyebrows coming together again in confusion "Apparently, this Celt leader wants his kingship to be recognized by the Pope"

"That'll only happen if he converts" Gawain cut in, his lips in a thin line.

"Celts don't relinquish their religion that easily" Galahad added.

"And Cornwall doesn't even fall under Rome's jurisdiction" Lancelot's protest was halted when Arthur lifted his palm.

"This Mark is clever. He knows Rome is beginning the withdrawal from Britain. When we leave, most of the leaders will want to claim the island for their tribes. If he strikes a deal with Rome, he might even get help" Dagonet patiently explained.

"Since when do you know so much about Roman and Celt joint politics?" Bors mocked.

Dagonet chose not to answer, preferring to roll his eyes in mock defeat. Arthur looked at each of his knights.

"He'll be coming with quite a large group of people"

"Carriages?" the somewhat always harsh voice found its way out of Tristan's mouth.

"None that I know of. He's bringing his wife and her two servants but they appear to be able to ride fairly well"

No more information was exchanged between the Commander and his knights, so after a few moments, everyone left to clean themselves up and change into more comfortable clothes. The non-spoken pact of meeting at twilight at the tavern was already agreed to. No matter how much time they spent with each other, they always wanted more. All the blood they'd shed, the pain they'd inflicted, both their enemies' and their own, created a far stronger bond than any meeting back in distant Sarmatia would've formed.

By the end of the night, Gawain, Galahad, Lamorak and Lancelot had disappared with one tavern wench for each; Arthur had retired to his quarters, probably with the intention of praying to his god; Bors was sharing loving words with Vanora; and Dagonet and Percival spoke while Tristan listened. Ale and wine had run abundantly over the last couple of hours, and the tavern was already closed. However, the knights were always welcomed to a table and some fresh food and drink. Everyone at the fort knew how dangerous and difficult their job was, so the Sarmatians were given a much wider berth at some activities than the usual Roman legionaries.

Dagonet was still musing over King Mark of Cornwall and his soon-to-be meeting with the Roman envoys.

"What do you think, Tristan?" he asked his quiet friend.

"I think nothing of it" was the cryptic answer.

"Come on, brother" exclaimed Percival "Tell us: what is your mind reeling about?"

The scout just gazed at him briefly before standing up and disappearing into the folds of the night. Out of all the knights, Percival was the only one Tristan had trouble tolerating. He even stood for Lancelot's smugness when it came to women. He even put up with Galahad's rants about freedom and Lamorak's silly jokes. But Percival, who was the complete opposite of Tristan, made him nervous. Not that he'd ever said so, but his brothers in arms had begun to understand what their scout acted like when he wasn't comfortable with the surrounding environment. Anyone who didn't know them might have found it hard to comprehend why it was Percival out of all people -with his sweet demeanour and kind words- that made Tristan go away.

The night ended like so many others, with Bors finally giving in to sleep on one of the tables as Vanora watched in defeat.


	2. The Cornish King

CHAPTER II

Gawain's hair floated in the breeze as he waited next to his fellow knights for the arrival of King Mark and his procession. They were all wearing their best suits of armour and their helmets, which they seldom used. Even Tristan had obliged his Commander's wish of looking presentable. Although his unfazed eyes proved nothing of the sort, Gawain was sure that the scout was starting to regret stepping into his brand new leather pants and jerkins just for the sake of some high-born Celt and his family. The thought of Tristan becoming accustomed to clothes was so strange that Gawain had to fight not to snigger. The scout turned to look at him, his intelligent eyes narrowing in suspicion.

They'd been waiting for quite a long time already. The horses were tiring of the heavy loads they were carrying and Bors was sure Vanora would give him hell when he got back. She never seemed to pay attention to the fact that his duty often meant pretending to kiss the arses of those with higher-ranks than his own. Her fiery disposition to slap him every time he got back to her was what Bors liked the most about his lover.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a group of riders was spotted –first by Tristan, as always- galloping towards them. The scout counted around fifteen people, including two of the women the letter had spoken of. After that, it took almost no time for the newcomers to arrive where Arthur and his men stood.

Gawain assessed their leader first. King Mark of Cornwall was a middle-aged man with clear, intelligent eyes and short, black hair. He rode confidently. A bronze crown was unnecessarily nestled around his head: his pose was so proud and imposing it would have been impossible to confuse him with somebody else.

The man right next to him wore a dreamy quality on his face, not unlike Percival's. Big and handsome, Gawain had no doubt he was someone important to the king, perhaps his advisor. But it was the person at the other side of Mark who caught everyone's attention. For it was a woman, one so majestic it was hard to take the eyes away from her.

It wasn't just her beauty- which there was plenty of- but her stance which made stick out. Hair the colour of oak wood in a loose braid framed a pale, longish face with two eyes the colour of grass somehow greener than that covering the British hills. Her clothes were masculine and yet held a distinctive feminine shade to them. Perched on her shoulder was a white hawk, nipping delicately at the loose ends of her braid. She took her time in evaluating the Sarmatian knights, her eyes jumping from one to another in an orderly fashion. Finally, they rested upon Tristan's very own hawk, and her lips broke into a swift smile.

"Ah, that is the first time I've seen Isolde smile in weeks" Mark's heavily accentuated words brought the knights' attention back to him "She's angry at me for what I've come to do"

"I'm not angry, husband. I merely disagree with you" she replied in an accent they'd never encountered before.

"Where are you from, my Lady, if I may ask?" Arthur softly questioned.

"I come from Ireland. From across the sea" she replied sweetly.

"I've never had the pleasure of visiting your homeland, though I now wish I had" always charming, Lancelot cut in.

Isolde laughed, her voice twinkling in amusement as she examined the ever-gallant man.

"I'm sure you say exactly that to every foreigner you meet. However, I do recommend you to visit my island. It is truly a beautiful place" the longing in her eyes was so evident that her husband averted his gaze, as if he felt guilty of whisking her away from what she so loved.

"My Lord, My Lady" Arthur said "May I introduce my knights?"

Mark nodded, his face serene and his expression polite, while Isolde displayed an enormous grin. Gawain noticed her looking briefly at Tristan, who was currently nursing his hawk as if it was a purring kitten. The dark knight had certainly caused an impression on the Cornish Queen.

"These are Lancelot, Gawain, Galahad, Lamorak, Percival, Bors, Dagonet and Tristan" Arthur signalled to each as he called out the different names "All brave warriors and excellent company".

"They're not Briton, are they?" Isolde asked.

"We're from Sarmatia" Galahad answered, grinning, "A land to the East"

The woman merely inclined her head in acknowledgement, and then patted her horse, who was huffing restlessly. She muttered a few words in her native tongue, words that almost felt like a song. The stallion immediately relaxed and stopped its whining.

"You appear to have a good hand with animals, my Lady" Lamorak mentioned "Like our dear Tristan"

Tristan, who had been watching the exchange between animal and woman, tilted his head to stare at the youngest of the knights. Lamorak immediately flushed a deep crimson colour under the scout's icy ogling. After a short while, Tristan resumed his caring of the bird atop his arm. The rest of the assembled had a difficult time not laughing out at the boy's distress. Only Mark and Arthur managed to keep a severe expression.

As Gawain took in Isolde's grin, he began to see how young she really was. The Queen could not be older than Galahad, and yet the way she acted and carried herself made her look much older. Perhaps that was why the marriage between one such as Mark, who didn't look capable of smiling for real, and her, who appeared to be the personification of mirth, looked like it could actually work out. It was obvious that the Cornish King doted on his wife, but as for her feelings towards him, it was hard to tell. Nearly all marriages between high-born people were a bargain between the groom and the bride's family; most ended in mutual affection. Gawain could see that Isolde felt affection towards her king, but love? It was indeed hard to tell.

And as the last of pleasantries were spoken and the entourage made its way back to the fort, Gawain didn't fail to see the stolen glance that Isolde directed at Tristan.


	3. Thinking Back

CHAPTER III

Isolde looked around her room. It was hers, and hers alone. She sighed, happily. Mark was a devoted husband, yes, but even he couldn't keep himself from seeking some wench's attention from time to time. She understood. Back where she came from, married men were allowed to bed other women. Again, back where she came from, married women were also allowed to do the same. Her tribe in Ireland followed the Celtic traditions from old times, which meant freedom and liberty. Mark had a court, a castle and much more regimented and rigid protocol. The first months as Queen had been very hard on her. Even now, she felt the strangling hold of etiquette choking her at certain times.

That was when she took up falconry. During those lonely days when Mark was too busy with his diplomatic work she began to ride out into the forest and observe different kinds of birds. At first she'd been entranced by the eagle's way of flying, the lethal attack on its prey. However, she found them to be too big for her slender arm. And that was when Bragnae, her friend from Ireland, had come to visit her, bringing along the best present she'd ever received. _Baile_, meaning "home", had only been a chick when Bragnae delivered him to Isolde, and thanks to her careful attention, he had grown to be a wonderful specimen of his family. _Baile_ and Isolde had learned from each other, they had taught each other until they were virtually inseparable. Wherever the Queen went so would the hawk, except whenever he was out exploring.

The door opened all of a sudden to reveal one of her hand-maidens. Wylla was not the most accomplished at her job, but she was beautiful. Isolde had picked both her and Mäe to ensure that Mark had plenty to choose from while in the fort. She did not ask for fidelity, but the one thing she did demand was discretion. Mark usually accepted this bargain, but Isolde didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. She didn't want the whole fort knowing that she was not the only woman to warm the Cornish King's bed, even if they suspected it. Dignity was one of the few things she was left with, and she didn't plan on losing it any time soon.

Isolde dressed herself with the tunic Wylla had brought. The material was soft, too soft for her liking. Having lived with a tribe, she was used to much coarser fabrics. This dress made of raw silk only made her realize how low she was deemed now: a pretty face and a pretty body for a husband to flaunt. Wylla started braiding her hair, but her clumsy and slow fingers made Isolde grow impatient.

"Here, I'll finish that. Go visit your King" she irritably told the lady as her own hands travelled to finish the braid.

Wylla muttered an apology and quickly left the room. Isolde knew that she'd been somewhat harsh with her handmaidens as of recently. Such weakness bothered her far more than anything else. She scolded herself for letting her feelings grow wild.

Wild… her mind suddenly found itself thinking of a certain knight with eyes as savage as the forests that grew back on her homeland. Those dark and smouldering eyes that had made her feel aware of her own body and actions. That rugged face with its untamed hair and beard… Isolde forced herself to stop her mental affair. However hard she tried to stop them, dreams as steamy as the Roman baths she'd heard so much about had crept into her sleep, filling it with images of what those wiry arms could feel like around her body. A chill crept up her spine. That was partly why she hadn't been out in the three days the Cornish embassy had spent at the fort.

"Enough" she told herself "Get over it and go out"

"Get over what?" she turned around to find Mark assessing her from the doorway, his arms crossed and a subtle smirk on his full lips.

"I've been feeling a little sick as of late" she managed to say without trembling.

Mark's smile grew wider.

"You might be with child" he offered as an explanation, walking closer to her.

"I'm bleeding right now, so I do not think that's the case" she phrased as carefully as possible.

She saw her husband's smile falter and finally disappear before he sighed in disappointment. Isolde suddenly felt terrible. She'd been taking a potion which she knew would prevent pregnancy ever since she first arrived at Cornwall. At first it had been out of spite: she'd fought against the marriage with all her might, but her father, wanting to establish trade routes between Mark's city and his own, had forced her to go ahead with the plan. Then she'd grown scared of giving birth when her sister died while delivering a boy who had also died. Now she just did it out of tradition. She knew it had to stop. She just didn't know if she could.

"I was going to go to the tavern" she added as pleasantly as she could.

But Mark had a different idea, for he closed the door and took her to bed. He wasn't as careful or considerate as other times, probably because he felt a twinge of bitterness about her apparent infertility. Isolde behaved the way she'd been taught before her wedding night: she let herself be handled, allowed her body to be fondled, but didn't contribute any more than he personally asked her to. Once he was done, Mark clothed himself and left the room without any other word. Isolde remained in her bed, her eyes wet with tears she would never shed.

A while later, she dressed in a gown chosen by herself and left the building in the darkness, her feet covered by warm boots and her arms protected with a cape made out of wool, _Baile_ perched on her shoulder. Isolde marched up to her horse and saddled him as quietly as possible before mounting him and setting the stallion on the path towards the highest hill. She knew she wasn't supposed to behave this way, but her throat had been itching, pressed by a claw made of rules and forced silence. She needed to get away, if only for a short moment.

Once the steed had reached its destiny, Isolde dismounted in one swift movement and sent _Baile_ flying with a strong jerk of her arm. The cold and yet gentle puffs of wind dishevelled her hairdo even more, and she took trembling fingers to the end of the braid to undo it. The feeling of her long mane flowing freely in the wind brought new tears to her eyes. This time, away from propriety and people, she let them fall. Feeling no more than a girl, Isolde lay on the soft grass and hugged her knees. Sobs shook her shoulders in violent shivers. She never knew how long she stayed there, sensing sweet nature around her. When her eyes dried up, she just looked up at the sky as it began to tint itself with a reddish tone. It was dawn.

Isolde compelled herself to stand up and get atop her horse again, leading it back to the fort. No one saw her as she unsaddled the stallion and brushed it clean. No one saw her as she crept up the stairs and went into her room. No one save for a lonely scout who watched in silence.


	4. Jago

CHAPTER IV

On the next day, Isolde felt a renewed strength within her. She even allowed Wylla and Mäe to take her time washing her body and fixing her clothes and hair. As soon as they were done, the Cornish Queen descended down the stairs of the main building and started to walk around the village. From time to time a different Sarmatian knight came into view. First it was Gawain, who was cleaning his dangerous-looking axe with loving gestures. Then it was Galahad and Lamorak, who was looking for Gawain. After that he encountered Lancelot flirting with a young girl who sported blushing cheeks. Right next to them stood Bors with a red-headed woman surrounded by nine children, and close by she could see Dagonet talking to Percival and Arthur. Of Tristan there was no sign.

"Lady! Lady!" she heard Bors calling to her "Lady, may I introduce my… Vanora?" he finished with a hearty chuckle. Isolde smiled: it was hard not to do so around the burly man.

Vanora gazed at her with clever eyes and her lips suddenly broke into a warm smile. Though she had looked at first like a common woman, now she felt as bright and comfortable as the Sun itself. Isolde did not find it hard to understand what it was that had attracted Bors.

"And these are my children" the knight made a general gesture. He was obviously very proud of his offspring. Isolde had to admit, it was extensive. A pang of guilt spread within her chest. She fought to control her expression, but she noticed Vanora's features change into one of understanding.

"Well, my Lady, I was just telling my man here that he should stop pestering me while I work! He can't seem to keep his hands off me, especially while I have things to do! Perhaps he'll listen to you!" Vanora scolded her lover and winking at the Cornish Queen. It surprised her at first, that familiarity, but it was so welcome that Isolde found herself answering accordingly.

"Why, Bors! You should let a decent woman work! Don't you have work to do? Why don't you take care of all those children? I'm sure Vanora will appreciate the consideration!" she replied in mock anger.

Bors laughed out loud and nodded before he excused himself and chased his offspring away from the tavern.

"I swear, sometimes I think I'm educating him along with all those kids" Vanora sighed "He can be tiresome. All knights" she added, her eyes significantly travelling to where Lancelot stood "can be tiresome".

Lancelot smirked and kissed the girl's cheek before he bid them farewell.

"Are you feeling alright, my Lady?" Vanora asked, her eyes worried.

"I'm sorry if I haven't met you until now. I was feeling ill. But please, don't bother with titles. Address me as Isolde"

Vanora smiled warmly at her. Isolde discovered that her motherly expression was what made her so endearing. She found herself wanting more of those smiles.

"The boys started to worry about you, you know? When they met you, they couldn't stop talking about how wonderful you were and then you disappeared and they felt as if they'd offended you somehow"

"Not at all" Isolde replied quickly "I was just… resting from the journey"

Vanora's face showed her disbelief, but the woman didn't press the issue and Isolde felt relieved. Although she longed to tell someone of her feelings, somehow she knew that what Vanora knew, Bors knew. She didn't want any trouble to ensure between her husband and the knights. She did not doubt who would win, but it would be unwise to let these people, who were not even her own kin, know about her own marriage issues.

Without not so much as a warning, Isolde felt a presence behind her. She turned slowly, knowing fully well who it was watching her: Jago, her husband's closest advisor and the commander of Cornwall's small army; and her shadow. Back at Cornwall, he'd always been around her, sniffing, spying, and ready to tell Mark of whatever he felt she did was unsuitable or indecent. His dreamy expression fooled many people, but not her. She knew he didn't like her one bit, and she also knew why. Jago was a Christian. He was the one who had told Mark to strike a deal with the Pope of Rome. Ever since she'd arrived, Jago had felt the compulsion of pushing her further and further into a submissive and subservient role, where he thought she "belonged". Her status as Irish princess was enough to send him over the edge and he'd voted fiercely against the marriage when it was first suggested.

"I thought we had agreed that you wouldn't venture out on your own" he told her in his deceptive soft voice.

"I agreed to no such thing" Isolde answered, her voice steady and proud "You tried to impose that on me. I never agreed. I will never agree to a single thing you say"

"Pagan whore" he spat, his eyes glazing in fury.

Isolde felt something on her shoulder. She smiled. _Baile_ had finally come back. The hawk hooted and spread its wings, flashing his piercing beak.

"A whore and a witch" Jago went on "How fitting"

Out of thin air, she heard a sword being unsheathed and felt herself being pulled backwards. The shape of Tristan came before her, his back turned to her, his weapon high. She couldn't see his face, but Isolde was sure that the expression would be, at the very least, terrifying.

The people around the market had stopped the loud ruckus. Only silence met the sharp sound of the curved sword as Tristan wielded it before him. It took a moment for the scout's brothers to join in. They didn't need to know what had happened: Tristan seemingly beginning a fight was so rare and unexpected that there had to be a good reason for it. He wouldn't threaten a king's subject for just anything. He knew what was at stake.

"What is going on here?" a loud voice interrupted the scene.

Arthur and Mark had arrived. It took only one second for the former to understand the situation, but the latter couldn't find any sense in it.

"What is going on here?" he repeated, his voice taking a harder edge.

They all turned to Tristan, expecting an answer. Just as they all watched him, he shifted to gaze at Isolde, arching his eyebrow. He was daring her to come forward. In one simple instant, he'd grasped the seriousness of the situation; he'd perceived the fact that, despite constant verbal abuse, Isolde had never once told her husband. Now was the time to tell.

"He'd insulted me. The knight Tristan defended my honour" she said in a clear voice.

Mark turned to look at Jago, who held his gaze steadily. After a short while, Mark lowered his eyes. Isolde felt a cold bite in her chest: if the King was ready to bow under Jago's dominance in such a public place, she was lost. All was lost. Her disappointment was clear when she coolly met Mark's gaze. She couldn't even find the words to express her feelings of shame for her husband. A husband with no strength of his own, no ideas of his own. Cornwall would be ruled by a Christian king, but it would not be Mark. It would be Jago. How long before the man took the city and its inhabitants in the physical sense? Would her husband be so weak as to give her up too? In his eyes she knew the truth. Yes. He couldn't deny Jago anything.

Isolde barely found the ability to turn around and walk towards the stables. Her hands felt useless as she tried to fasten the saddle around her horse. Firm fingers began to finish what she'd distractedly started. Her eyes turned sideways: Dagonet and Lancelot were silent as they helped her up. Arthur was also there. He looked at her before he briefly nodded. And then she set off. Her stallion galloped as fast as he possibly could.


	5. Home

CHAPTER V

It didn't take long before she heard another pair of hooves hitting the ground. Her eyes travelled to look behind, only to find Tristan and his mare. His hawk was nowhere to be seen until she gazed up. Both her falcon and Tristan's were flying over their heads, crossing their paths as they intertwined in a beautiful and endless pattern.

For a while they rode. It wasn't silent, albeit none of them spoke. They listened to the trees as they whispered ancient tales, they watched the animals as they bordered the forest… it was a conversation full of meaning between the many parts that formed nature.

When her belly started to make noises, Isolde made her horse halt and she descended with an agile jump. She felt Tristan do the same.

"Sit beside me, will you?" she pleaded without turning to look at him.

The scout doubted for a moment and finally settled close to her, though not as close as for their skins to touch. Isolde found herself wanting to caress him, to hold him. She watched as Tristan took out a green apple from his pouch, peeled it and handed it over. He then began to do the same with his. Despite his gruff ways, Isolde discovered that his way of eating the fruit was somewhat delicate, what with cutting the pieces with the sharp knife and making them travel all the way to barely parted lips, which opened just so his teeth could munch on them. It was rather sensual, and she sensed her cheeks burning.

He ignored her. Tristan finished his first apple and started on his second before Isolde had even bitten hers properly.

"Eat" she suddenly heard.

"What?"

"Eat. I know you're hungry. I can hear it" in his eyes there was a slight amusement, as if challenging her to deny it.

Isolde bit into the juicy fruit and all at once discovered herself taking enormous chunks and swallowing them as fast as she could. She barely took her time to chew properly.

"Be careful or you'll choke" he spoke.

"I'm causing nothing but trouble, huh?" she weakly smiled.

"It's entertainment" was the surprising answer.

"Does my humiliation entertain you?" her voice came out as bitter.

He looked at her with an arched eyebrow, but said nothing.

"What is Sarmatia like?" Isolde questioned "Is it like this?"

"It shares some similar traits, yes"

"Don't you remember?" she grew astonished.

Tristan focused on her his intelligent eyes.

"Do you remember everything about Ireland?"

"Some things are beginning to blur in my mind" she answered after a brief silence.

"How long have you been away?"

"Almost three years, now"

"I've been here for thirteen years. Now you tell me, do I remember? I can't say I do. I'm not like my brothers. They keep on going about home. This is home, whether they like it or not. They've been here far longer than they spent back in Sarmatia"

"Don't you want freedom?" Isolde questioned.

"Freedom, yes. Fantasies about what my life will be like once I serve my fifteen years, not so much"

He briefly glanced her way and she could see the beginning of a smirk appear on his thin lips. Oh, how she wished to kiss them. They looked at each other for what it seemed ages and instants all at the same time. She knew it was a long time, but it felt like a short while. Her hand travelled to his chest and was placed over his heart.

"This is home" she said quietly "It's not a place; it's a feeling"

Tristan allowed himself a brief smile. The girl looked so young right now. What age could she be? Surely no older than eighteen summers. How old was he? Almost thirty now. He was the same age as Dagonet, older than Arthur, than Bors… far older than this young Queen. And still, he felt a kind of strange familiarity as her fingers ran up to touch a sharp cheekbone. It retreated slightly, silently asking if this way of touching him was alright. He didn't speak. Somehow, he knew that this is what she needed.

And then she touched his lips. He made a rumbling sound deep down in his throat. This was dangerous territory. Tristan didn't find anything wrong with taking care of the sad little Irish princess, but this was a whole different affair. If her people caught them, he would probably die and so would she. Was he willing to risk what was left of his servitude for some warm nights? No. That wasn't like him. She might be beautiful. Beautiful and innocent and wise all at the same time. There were more girls like that, girls who could warm his bed just as well and give him half the trouble this one would.

So he briskly stood up, turning his back to her in an attempt to rein his lust and those dangerous sentiments that could destroy everything he'd stayed alive for. And then he felt her arms snaking around his waist, slender and soft. They stayed like that for a while, their skin never touching and yet their bodies joining in quiet understanding. Neither went any further. It was not because they weren't daring enough, but because this was enough for them: each other's presence was enough to soothe their respective spirits, like balm.

The scout felt the Cornish Queen's arms around him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder blade and the soft inhaling of the young woman on his neck. It was both unnerving and strangely pleasant. He started to notice the flowing of Isolde's blood, the steady and firm pumping of her heart, the rhythm of her breathing and the span of time she took before shifting ever so slightly. He came used to listen to what her body said, just as he knew what his own did.

The sky began to colour itself with dark blue and purplish tints, becoming darker in an almost imperceptible process. The scout and his ward reached the fort just before the doors closed. Jago was nowhere to be seen, but Mark stood in all his sad and useless severity. He was wearing the crown around his head, but this time it looked like a poor excuse for his leadership. Arthur wore no distinctive attribute other than his red cape, and yet it seemed to be so much more important than Mark's diadem that the Cornish King found himself loosing respect for himself in the comparison.

Both Baile and Tristan's hawk descended from the heights to perch themselves on their respective masters` shoulders. They did with such coordination and the expressions on the Queen's and scout's faces were so similar, that for a short time they almost looked related.

"My dear" Mark begun, his bland lips trembling "Are you alright?"

"I will be alright when you send Jago away so that he may never return" was the cold answer as Isolde dismounted.

"I cannot do that. He is my friend" Mark's voice hardened.

"He's not your friend. He owns you. He's your…"

A loud snap rung loud, making everyone jump. Isolde brought her hand to the already swelling cheek as her eyes rose to eye her husband. The icy and void-of-all-expression orbs were so eloquent that the knights had the tact to turn their gazes away; all but one. Tristan was staring at the couple as impassively as Isolde looked at Mark. And then she turned away and left the square, not bothering to look behind.

"And you, Sarmatian" Mark exclaimed at Tristan "You stay away from my wife"


	6. You'll be the death of me

Over the course of the following days, Isolde went out riding many other times, always followed by one of Arthur's knights and one of Mark's bodyguards. The former usually spoke with her while the latter was abandoned to sulk in utter stillness. None of Tristan's fellow companions tried to fix that fact. Isolde found a trustworthy friend in each of the knights, though she had her own preferences among the group.

Percival taught her how to braid her hair in the Sarmatian style, with much thinner plaits weaving around each other, adding strips of loose cloth along the braid. According to his tales, his older sister had forced him to learn, but Isolde had the secret suspicion that the absent-minded knight liked doing that sort of thing.

Galahad explained what he remembered about home, describing it with such passion she felt compelled to visit it as soon as she possibly could. Somehow, the young man managed to depict a land so wild and different to everything she'd ever known that she began to picture it without any further guidance.

Gawain educated her about weapons, how to clean them, how to sharpen their blades without cutting off too much metal. The golden knight even told her tricks about swordsmanship.

Bors introduced her to his children. Isolde found it funny and yet a little offensive towards the poor bastards that their father had properly named two or three, preferring to stick with names when it came to the rest. She agreed to help him find decent names for each of the younglings, who in turn took to following around wherever she went. Vanora appreciated the help with her offspring, and the queen was always happy to help.

With Dagonet she spoke of herb lore and medicinal plants, exchanging knowledge about techniques and methods to cure different diseases. Isolde soon found that Dagonet was one of her favourite, because his silence was just as filling and rewarding as his chat. There was never an ounce of discomfort where Dagonet was concerned.

Lancelot, who was always followed around by eager Lamorak, narrated stories about their confrontations against Woads and other rivals. He often included tales of his conquests. It appeared that his sexual prowess was far more impressive than his memory, for he quickly started to mix up names and descriptions, making Isolde laugh at his distress.

All of the knights discovered in turn that Isolde was an enthusiastic student who wanted to learn everything she possibly could. It seemed her mind never stopped working. All the time spent with them also made her more open than she already was. Mark began to despise the Sarmatians. He even tried to stop his wife from seeking her company, but the only thing he got as a result of that was a locked door and no possibility of visiting Isolde in the cold nights. To humiliate and spite her, he became much less discrete with his affairs, which only increased her resolve. The Irish princess had no doubt she would pay for her actions when they got back to Cornwall, but it was all worth it. She didn't hate Mark. There was no room for such a feeling in a marriage like theirs, and it was not like he was an evil man. She pitied him, which was a sentiment much more painful to the King.

As for Tristan, Isolde hadn't seen him since that confrontation between her husband and herself back at the square. He had apparently been sent by Arthur to scout around the fort. Although he ever strayed too far from the Wall, it always took about three days to cover what was considered the closest area to the village. Isolde missed him. The first night, she wrote on a piece of parchment and called _Baile_ to her.

"Take this to Tristan" she whispered longingly before letting the hawk leave.

Tristan read the note and ripped it, tearing the words into pieces. The white falcon gazed at him with intelligent eyes and he lifted his finger. Baile pinched it softly, indicating he knew what Tristan meant to his master. Then he left with a powerful thrust of wings. The scout watched the bird go, his face blank. He didn't plan on responding. He'd never trusted paper; he didn't confide what he thought to something which could easily be discovered. And how could he name the sentiment he held for a woman he could never have? She was out of limits. Love? He snickered at the term. Love was an invention of men to make women swoon at petty little declarations. Love, if there was ever such a feeling, was for the weak and soft. He was neither of those things. He was a warrior, a tough knight whose future was still uncertain. Tristan's was a life of solitude and blood, both his and his enemies'. He wanted no one to be constantly fawning about whether or not he would come back alive. He didn't want to owe anything to anyone.

So the note, two simple words, almost messed his resolve not to care. It was annoying because it meant his life had a purpose other than expiring those fifteen years the Romans forced him and his brothers to serve. It was annoying because it meant being less bold and daring than what his job required, only to come back safely to him. Those two words, "be careful", could change everything, and it took all Tristan had not to rush back to the fort. And he hated her for it, if only for a moment. One couldn't be deadly and careful at the same time.

"You'll be the death of me, woman" he grumbled.

His hawk flapped her wings, begging to leave. Tristan obliged. It was time to go home.


End file.
